


Forsaken

by transience



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Assassination Attempt(s), Drugs, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slave!Laurent, Swordfighting, but not by Damen's hands, flagellation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transience/pseuds/transience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The regent gifts Aikelos with a slave.<br/>Damen treats him decently, and Laurent cannot fathom why.<br/>Meanwhile, treachery and plotting continue to transpire within the castle walls, and the princes find themselves having to protect their kingdoms and birthrights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> Damen is way too naive and trusting.
> 
> also please read the warnings before reading

“A gift from Vere?”

“Yes. A bedslave,” Nikandros replies. “His colouring matches your taste. I hear from the Veretians that he has quite the mouth on him. And one almost successful escape attempt under his belt.”

“Oh? What does Vere mean for me to do with him? Tame him?”

“Who knows why Veretians do the things they do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nikandros was not lying when he had said the slave was to his tastes. Even in the dim light of the holding cell his blonde hair looked soft and his blue eyes shone. They were a starker blue than even Jokaste’s own. He was beautiful, the most beautiful male Damen had seen, bedslave or not. His features were fine and almost regal, his physique slender but not to the point of looking half-starved like some seemed to prefer.

When he met Damen’s gaze, however, an expression of horror seemed to twist his features, but it was gone so quick Damen wondered if he had simply imagined it. The slave tugged on the chains that kept him captive, but Damen saw the lack of intent in it. The slave knew he could not escape the irons.

“What’s your name?” Damen asked in Akielon.

The slave just glared back at him with piercing blue eyes, before a guard shoves him none too gently.

“There’s no need for that,” Damen chastises the guard, who moves back.

The slave looks confusedly at him.

“What’s your name?” Damen repeats, this time in Veretian. The look of confusion was gone.

“Nicaise.”

The guard speaks up, “His Veretian trader says he was called Auguste-“

“You are not fit to speak that name,” the slave interrupts in Veretian. His volume had not raised in the slightest, but even the guard takes a step back despite not understanding. The strong undercurrent of anger was evident in the slave’s tone.

Then the moment is gone and Damen can see what would unfold as incredulity and outrage floods the guard’s visage and he steps forward.

“Stop, it’s all right,” Damen commands.

“But you highness-”

“Leave us. Or will you disobey orders?”

“As you wish, your highness.”

The slave’s eyes are averted.

 _Auguste_. The late crown prince’s name, killed by Damen’s own hand. No wonder the slave had given another name.

“ _Nicaise_ ,” Damen switches to Veretian once more. “Am I pronouncing it right?”

The slave blinks at him curiously.

“Yes.”

“You do not have the manner of a typical bedslave, Nicaise.”

Nicaise lets out a short laugh, void of humour.

“Perhaps I’m just special,” he blinks, looking up wide-eyed through long lashes. “What else could I have been?”

“Prince Damianos, your father requests your presence in court,” Nikandros cuts in.

Damien excuses himself politely in Veretian, as Nicaise averts his gaze once again. He doesn’t know why, but the blonde was captivating. More so than any bedslave he had encountered.

 

* * *

 

 

Laurent finds himself being led to the slave baths, and commanded by the handler to undress. He knows, of course, that resistance was futile at this stage. It would do him good if he acquiesced to avoid further harm, at least until he had enough information to plan with.

“Normally I would never sent a slave so untrained to the prince, but he insisted.”

“Damianos?” Laurent slips, forgetting that _Nicaise_ wouldn’t have understood a word of Akielon.

The handler slaps his shoulder.

“Prince Kastor-exalted. But it would do you good to remember to speak only if you are spoken to, and address his highness with the proper title.”

Laurent draws into himself, acting slightly fearful. It seems to please the handler who turns to call over two other slaves – one male, one female. It seems that they were more liberal in Akielos, and copulation between different sexes was not taboo.

Laurent still shrinks away from the male’s touch though, and he receives yet another slap and a rebuke from the handler. Laurent closes his eyes, as the slaves wash him and then dried him off.

“Stay still,” the handler warns, as they picked up paints. Laurent had always loathed paints, but he closes his eyes, and moves his body into a position that seemed more submissive. The strokes started off around his eyes, and continued down one side of his face, then down his neck, even under the gold collar, and across his collarbones and down one arm, before ending in a point just below his breastbone and just above the gold cuffs on his wrists. After the paint dried, they clothed him in a chiton so short he felt even more exposed than he had in the nude, and fastened a gold earpiece to his ear. The strings of sapphires attached to it hung down in varying lengths, the longest almost long enough to touch his shoulder if he tilts his head.

They pin a gold lionhead pin on him.

“The prince’s emblem,” the handler states. “It shows you are part of his household.”

Laurent remembers to shoot him a quizzical look this time, as he tried to forget the touches of the slaves.

Then one of them picks up a jar of oil and Laurent jerks.

“Restrain him,” the handler orders the male slave, and Laurent cannot resist as he is tied down.

His uncles voice rings in his mind as the female slave’s fingers dip in the oil and reach towards him.

_It will be easier if you relax._

Laurent does get his body under control quickly as the fingers work inside him, one, then two, then three. Just when he thought he was done, another joins him, until there were six, moving in and out languorously. The male, Laurent realises with horror, as he feels the fingers pushing at his inner walls. He grits his teeth, and endures the rest of it. He does not even twitch a single time thereafter, until they tilt his jaw up and makes him swallow what could only be an aphrodisiac.

 

* * *

 

 

Nicaise was kneeling in the far corner of Damen’s chambers when he got back, where the light barely reached, hands bound behind him.

“Have you been waiting long,” Damen switches to Veretian easily, but the slave flinches slightly and draws back even further.

“What’s the matter?” Damen asks, approaching Nicaise.

“Don’t touch me,” the slave all but shouts, but Damen can hear his breaths from across the room.

“Stay away. Don’t come closer,” the slave warns, the tremor in his voice almost imperceptible were it not for Damen’s keen ears.

“They drugged you,” Damen realises.

“Don’t,” the slave repeats, and Damen can see the effects of the drug take hold as Nicaise trembles and curls in slightly, sweat beading across his forehead.

Damen draws nearer, and the slave turns his blue eyes on him. His face was surprisingly calm, but he can make out the hints of fear and wariness in the blue.

“Relax, I’m just going to unbind you.”

Nicaise still looks wary, but he doesn’t pull back when Damen reaches out, although his muscles stay tense.

Laurent does not know what to make out of the Akielon prince’s actions. True to his word, he had not touched him.

“Why?” Laurent cannot help from asking.

“I wouldn’t do that. Not if you were unwilling. Do you think me cruel?”

“Aren’t you lot barbarians?”

“Do we seem that bad to you?”

Laurent holds back a whine, as the drug seems to send another pulse of arousal through him, willing his erection to stay gone.

“That must hurt,” the prince remarks.

“I’m sure you would know,” Laurent rebukes.

“I do. Took a sip once out of curiosity, and it was embarrassing to say the least. How much did they give you?”

* * *

 

“A full glass.”

Damen was shocked. After all a single sip had been enough to drive him delirious for a few hours, yet here was Nicaise, keeping up conversation in his level tone after that much.

“Your self-control is admirable.”

“What do you want me to do? Thank you? Fuck you?”

“Not unless you want to.”

The slave shot him a withering glare.

Damen sighs, “Look, I really won’t touch you if you aren’t willing. Tomorrow I’d request that you be taken out of my household if you wish.”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Do you really think all your countrymen are like you? Look at me. If you sent me away, I’d just be passed to another brute.”

The slave tells him this sounding pained.

“Alright.”

“That’s it? No demands? No favours?”

“None.”

“… One question. I’ll answer a single question truthfully.”

“I’m doing this because I want to, Nicaise. You owe me nothing.”

“I insist. I don’t like being in debt.”

“Another time, Nicaise,” Damen hesitates, “If you would like to, ah, relieve yourself, I would understand. I would not watch.”

The slave gaped at him in horror, protesting vehemently.

“No, it’ll wear off, sooner or later.”

Damen knows the drug was designed to be long lasting, but he’s sure the slave knew that.

“Suit yourself.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning he wakes to his slave on the pallet, sitting up straight with faint bags under his eyes.

“Sleep well?”

The slave does not glare at him, and Damen smiles slightly.

“No,” he pauses. “Thank you. For not fucking me.”

For one so averse to the act, Nicaise seemed to have no qualms uttering it aloud.

“Any man would have done the same.”

“Not every man.”

The slave’s eyes had darkened, as if he were recalling a memory less fond.

“Any honourable man,” Damen amends.

Nicaise lets out a dark laugh. “The honourable ones are always the ones who go first.”

 

“It would serve you well not to get on my bad side. You do have our little arrangement on the line. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?”

The slave pales considerably, and Damen almost regrets his words, but he needed to learn how to act if they were to convince the whole court.

“You realise you’d have to at least act like you like me in public?” Damen says, tone more gentle.

“Don’t worry. I’m a very good actor.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nicaise was a hell of an actor.

Damen himself was almost convinced of the blind adoration that seemed to radiate from him. He moved sensually, more graceful than any bedslave, more elegant than even Jokaste.

The sapphires that hung from his ear framed his face beautifully, catching in the light and presenting an enchanting mien, lacking of any of the fire Damen had been privy to earlier.

Nicaise walked back to Damen, a platter of grapes with him. He ducks his head down, and Damen would have thought it bashful and endearing if he had not known it was all an act.

“In Akielos, the slaves feeds the masters?” Nicaise whispers.

“Yes. Is it different in Vere?”

“In Vere, it is the other way round.”

“How did you know I liked grapes?”

“I didn’t,” Nicaise raises his head, and offers a grape.

Damen had the feeling Nicaise was hiding something, but he takes the grape into his mouth, trying to avoid touching his slave’s fingers. He gets a nod of acknowledgement from his slave, and he can tell his slave is grateful for that small consideration.

“Why, Damianos, you’ve got yourself a nice catch! Maybe you would consider sharing him, even?”

Nicaise’s hand aborts movement for a second, and then he drops it. The expression of adoration was still evident on his face, but Damen had gotten acclimatised to it, and could tell it was slightly more strained.

“Makedon, you know how I am with sharing.”

“Yeah, yeah I was just joking,” Makedon laughs. “Have some Griva, for you and your pet.”

A glass is placed in front of Nicaise. Damen does not know what he was expecting, but his slave, laps at the drink, before downing the glass. Makedon laughs, and refills the glass. Nicaise drinks. Rinse and repeat.

“Eager to please, aren’t you?” Makedon addresses the slave.

“Anything that pleases my master, pleases me,” Nicaise replies, voice shy and submissive.

Makedon laughs again. He does seem to laugh a lot, probably because he was tipsy. “Not bad. He must be fun in bed. And how nicely he holds his drink.”

Damen was secretly impressed. Just a little. He himself could barely hold a few glasses of Griva, and Nicaise has had nearly the equivalent of a bottle but his speech remained clear and not slurred, his posture steady, the only signs of inebriation being the slight blush on his cheeks.

After Makedon excuses himself, though, Nicaise says, voice low and quiet so that only Damen can hear, “I might need some help getting up, I don’t think I can stand.”

Damen chuckles, and Nicaise does glare at him this time, but Damen draws Nicaise up to sit by his side instead of kneeling at his feet.

Nicaise sighs, and turns into Damen, resting his head on Damen’s shoulder and drawing up his feet. The chiton rode up pale thighs, and a sleeve slipped down a shoulder, but Damen was struck by the open expression on Nicaise’s face. Damen could not help running his fingers through his blonde hair. It felt soft, and to his small pleasure, Nicaise had leaned in to the touch, humming against his chest. Damen only wished it was not just an act.

Before long, Damen discovers Nicaise was truly asleep, and he stands to carry him back to his quarters. Makedon throws him a wink and a suggestive “have fun” as Damen takes his leave, and Damen can’t help but feel a little disgusted. Nicaise was right when he had said not all men would have done what Damen had.

“You can put me down now,” The slave murmurs, blue eyes sleepily blinking at him, clearing by the second.

“The effects of Griva don’t wear off that quickly. Rest, I’ve got you.”

Nicaise, thankfully, seemed to be too tired to argue, and his head drops back, burrowing into Damen’s neck.

Damen sets him on the bed, and lies down next to him. There was plenty of space. He draws the blankets up to Nicaise’s chin, and he turns.

“Thank you, uncle,” he murmurs, and Damen feels a chill.

 

* * *

 

 

Laurent wakes up on the bed, and freaks out.

“What happened last night?” Laurent questions the prince-killer.

“If you’re asking whether I fucked you, trust me. If I had, you’d know it.”

Laurent cringes. He had only a faint recollection of what had transpired the previous night. He only remembered feeling so warm, and so very comfortable. He remembers movement without walking, the rise and fall of a chest, and arms around him. He had felt safe, he realises, safe in the presence of his brother’s murderer.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Nicaise, nothing happened, I swear.” The prince-killer had the gall to look worried for him.

“Did I say anything?” Laurent demands.

“No,” Damens says, taken aback. Too quickly.

“You’re lying.”

“You’re perceptive for a bedslave. Fine, you thanked me.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

Laurent could tell that Damianos was lying, but he knew that he would get nothing out of him. Furthermore, his lack of reaction led Laurent to believe he couldn’t have possibly slipped anything to clue him in of his identity.

 

* * *

 

Being the bedslave of the crown prince had its merits. He could wander the castle unquestioned, and he spends his time memorising possible escape routes, and all the hiding places following servants had revealed to him. He journeyed the servant passages, marking out short cuts and alternative routes. He also overhears many conversations of note. It seemed that word that he could not speak Akielon had spread, and few bothered him.

Used to growing up in a scheming environment, Laurent was used to seeing the signs of someone plotting. Whispers amongst the servants, and snippets of conversation. Laurent could feel something ominous stirring, but he had not been in the court of Akielos long enough to determine its source.

He sees as a noble slips a messenger gold with his message, hears the confirmation of transactions made under secrecy.

Damianos tells him he would be away on a hunt the next day, and Laurent, recalls his uncle’s propensity to poison his mounts.

“Be careful,” Laurent warns him.

“I can take care of myself,” Damianos replies, surprise prominent on his features. Damianos seemed so open, made not for deceit but for honour and integrity. Sometimes, he reminded Laurent of Auguste. But he had loved Auguste so. He cannot love the man who had taken his brother away from him, and left him in the clutches of hiss treacherous uncle.

Yet Laurent had warned him.

Laurent was awoken by a none-too-gentle push, and he opens his eyes to unfamiliar guards. They drag him to his feet, leash him, and lead him towards the royal chambers. Laurent was confused, Damianos had said he would be away, after all. Then he realised that they were not, in fact, headed for Damianos’ quarters.

Laurent tested the guard’s grip on the leash, and almost loses his footing as the guard tugs violently at him to hurry, but years of swordsmanship and riding practice keeps him on his feet. He was brought to chambers slightly smaller than Damianos’, yet it was more lavishly decorated. He was leashed to an iron grate, and brought to kneel beside a curtain that separated the room.

The guards left him there, shutting the main doors behind them. From his own experience, Laurent knew they would stay in earshot, and he remains silent.

He hears voices through the wall at his back, and he strains to make out the voices.

“The men. They are ready?”

“Yes. They strike tonight.”

“Glad to hear it. You shall receive your payment when you leave the castle.”

The curtain parts, and two men stride past.

“What’s this?”

“A pet, shame you won’t stay alive long enough to see me enjoy him,” the other man leers.

Kastor, Laurent recognises. The bastard son of Akielos.

“I beg your pardon?” The man is too stupid to be afraid, or to run, Laurent thinks.

Kastor snaps his fingers, and the guards that had been outside rush in, gagging the man and dragging him out. The doors close behind them once more, but Laurent knew the man would never make it out of the castle alive.

Kastor turns to him.

“Hello sweetheart,” he says in Akielon.

Laurent puts on a blank face of confusion, keeping his posture submissive.

“Oh don’t play dumb with me. I know you can understand me.”

Laurent pales. He also connects the dots. Kastor must have been the one liaising with his uncle. Why else would he insist using Laurent as a _pet_?

“That’s right, pet. Your uncle sent you to me. I thought it bring you more pleasure if you were fucked by my dear brother instead. But I intend to make use of your full capacity now. They should be back soon, and the fun will start.”

Laurent brings his hands up to the leash and tugs, but he knew it futile. He was not strong enough to break neither the leash nor the iron. The doors swing open again, and the two guards enter, letting the door fall shut behind them. Kastor moves towards them, and, locking the door, says, “Gag and bind him, then do what you wish.”

The guards’ eyes roam hungrily over Laurent, and he curses Akielos and their obscenely short chitons.

“Please,” he pleads, in Aikelon, but the guards simply shove a cloth in his mouth, tightly tying the ends at his nape. Laurent wracked his mind for solutions, ideas, grasping at ends, but he was helpless.

He struggles, and a guard pins him face down with sheer strength, ripping the chiton off in one smooth motion. The other brings out manacles, shackling his feet to the floor securely. They fasten another set around his wrists, over the gold cuffs, and Laurent looks up to hooks in the ceiling.

They hang him up from those hooks, the irons on his feet weighing him down. One takes out a whip, and Laurent screams, but his voice is muffled by the cloth. He hears Kastor laugh, and tries to plead with him through his eyes.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart. Completely under their mercy,” Kastor drawls, in Veretian this time. “You can’t escape, no one will miss you. My dear brother is away, and even if he were here, he wouldn’t care. You’re just a bedslave now. Do your job. Entertain us.”

Laurent sobs as he hears the sound of a whip flying through air, and writhes as the first lash paints a stroke of agony down his back. His arms spasm, the weight on his ankles making his muscles burn. The lashes continue, across his chest, his upper thighs, his shoulders. They seemed to avoid areas that would show, but it still hurt like hell. Laurent can’t stop himself from sobbing now, his mind losing all semblance of control as pain overwhelmed his senses. He shook and screamed in his bonds, but the lashes kept raining down, over and over and over. Laurent blacks out.

When he comes to, the lashes have stopped, but a guard is standing behind him, uncomfortably close. Realisation downs on Laurent, and he shifts, but the guard shoves his cock in him anyway, unoiled. He screams around the gag, his throat sore, as the guard mercilessly thrusts in and out. Drops of red run down his legs, and through his tears Laurent cannot decide between being horrified and being grateful that the blood would at least offer some form of lubrication.

He hears Kastor say a flippant “Don’t do too much damage, we wouldn’t want him dead” as he retires, leaving Laurent to the mercy of the guards.

Just as he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the second guard takes his place behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

He was tossed out of the room once they were done, collapsing in a heap. His muscles burned, his throat was sore, and he was sure he had streaks of come painted on his body still. He puts on what was left of his chiton as best as he can. There was a long rip on one side, and he uses the lion-head pin to keep the garment together. He is glad he memorised the various passages that run the castle, otherwise the walk back would be mortifying. He slips into his small room in the slave’s quarters, and curls into a ball, trying to regain some sort of control. But how could he when every small movement reminds him of the ache he feels.

“Nicaise?” he hears a voice say. “I thought I’d-“

“Leave me alone.”

“Your eyes, have you been-“

“Please, I won’t ask again. Please leave me,” Laurent’s voice cracks.

Damianos inhales, and Laurent dreaded another question, but he hears footsteps withdraw as Damianos replied, “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

 

He was awoken a second time, by guards, and these one were unfamiliar. They drag him out of bed. Surely Kastor wouldn’t, not so soon other.

“Prince Damianos asked for you,” one says in Akielon, and Laurent pretends not to understand, but he goes more willingly. The pain had faded to a dull ache, and he could manage walking without wincing at each step, but the guards found it necessary to lead him by knifepoint.

Laurent let out a small breath of relief when they did stop in front of Damianos’ rooms. He is shoved inside, two guards out of three restraining him.

“Jokaste?”

Laurent feels dread building up in him. Damianos hadn’t been expecting them.

He hears a glass drop and shatter.

“What… what have you done?”

Laurent feels his heart rate pick up, sees Damianos sway on his feet, shattered glass at his feet and a splash of wine at his feet. No, it wasn’t just wine at his feet. He could see it, the dark powder concentrated at the point of impact where Damianos had dropped his glass. And the swaying was not that of inebriation, no. It was one induced by a sedative drug. Laurent could see Damianos try to fight it, and he thinks he sees a flash of emotion when he meets his eyes, but Laurent cannot spend time mulling over the prince’s features. He knew those who held him thought him no threat. Their grip was lax around his arms, their swords sheathed at their sides. In the meantime, the other had his sword drawn, and was leisurely approaching the prince, had to brace himself against the wall just to remain standing.

Laurent elbows one of his captors in the balls, whirling around to kick him away as he unsheathed a sword just in time to meet the other’s blow. There hadn’t been much strength in that first blow, but Laurent can see the mercenary assessing him, slightly more wary.

He had no time to play a drawn out game, so he feigns inexperience, fumbling with his blade to draw the mercenary in. He falls for it, diving in at the first sign of weakness just in time for Laurent to angle the blade just right, and drive it through his chest.

He hears the sounds of as struggle behind him, of things being knocked over, and a shout of “Nicaise!” as he spins instinctively to meet the second assassin. His muscles have started screaming again, protesting under the exertion he was putting them under. He feels something liquid stain the back of his chiton, and knows by the stinging that he has aggravated one of his lashes badly enough to cause it to bleed.

 

* * *

 

 

Damen sees Nicaise stumble across the room, and wills himself to awaken. A mere slave would stand little chance against trained men, especially not one as delicate and slight as Nicaise. He hears the sound of a body falling, his mind flashing back to the battle at Marlas, how he himself had felled many men, and he tries to will that feeling back into his muscles. He sees movement at the doorway, so somehow Nicaise must have managed to fend off an attacker, but not for long unless Damen gets his shit together, and fast. He hears a yelp in Nicaise’s pitch, just as his attacker reaches him, but he cannot shake off the haze of the drug.  The attacker swings his blade, and Damen drops. This, at least, he can do.

His fingers scrabble on the floor, searching and searching until at last they close upon a sizable shard of glass. Damen grips it, even as he feels the edges cut into his hands. It would be all right, his hands were tough and callused from years of handling the sword. He was rumoured to be the best in Akielos, and although he hadn’t duelled with all the legendary fighters in the kingdom, the rumour was not baseless. He normally would be able to overpower three men unarmed, or at least take care of himself until he could find an opening to disarm his opponent. But now his movements were sluggish, mind seeming to take ten times as long to process movement, and his sight blurring in and out haphazardly.

It was the clash of metal on metal that kept him moving, rolling away from his assailant. The hope that Nicaise was still alive, along with a voice that seemed to chant _get to Nicaise get to Nicaise get to Nicaise_ in his head that spurred him on. He dodges another blow that barely avoids glancing his side, and sticks out a leg, sweeping it across the floor to bring the man down. The room is unbearably silent after the man hits the floor with a thud, losing his grip on his blade, and Damen cannot guess how well Nicaise was faring, he hoped for the best, but expected the worse. Damen cannot deal with another.

He brings down the shard of glass, aiming for the assailant’s jugular, just as he registers the man reach for a knife in his belt.

Damen misses the mark, glass shard splintering uselessly on the floor. The man grins, arm raised, knife in hand, ready to drive it down. Damen wills himself to move, but his muscles refuse to obey, and he braces himself. Then suddenly the man is gone.

 Damen turns to see Nicaise holding the man at sword-point, the knife lying out of his reach at the other side of the room. Nicaise’s stance was not of an inexperienced slave, but of a seasoned swordsman. It was balanced, his feet a shoulder’s width apart, and his grip tight and steady yet flexible enough for a variety of actions.

Nicaise speaks, in a tone so cold even Damen shuddered. Damen does not recognise the words. Nicaise was speaking in a language that was neither Veretian nor Akielon.

The assailant smiles at him, taunting him.

A threat bleeds into his voice, his frighteningly level voice.

The man shakes his head, not breaking his gaze.

Nicaise digs the blade deeper, and blood wells up in the hollow of the man’s neck. He inclines his head, coolly uttering another phrase in that foreign tongue.

The man’s smile widens, and he spits out a single word.

A glint appears in Nicaise’s eye, and he shifts the blade.

Damen lets out a shout as he sees the man reach for something behind him, but Nicaise had blocked the throwing knife with his gold cuff, and sliced open the man’s throat in one economical movement. He lowers the blade, flecks of blood making an arc on the floor. He turns to Damen, then, and asks, “Are you hurt?”

Damen can see the exhaustion in his gaze now, the unsteadiness in his movements. The worst of the drug’s effects have begun to fade. After all, he had just taken a single sip. His vision clears, his mind feeling lighter, and he then notices the blood staining Nicaise’s chiton.

“You’re bleeding.”

“No,” Nicaise denies, “It is not my blood.”

“Don’t be absurd, I’ve seen battle, I know what an enemy’s blood would look like.”

“Of course you would.”

“Please. Let me,” Damen says, as he reaches out to unclasp the Lionhead pin, and the chiton parts. The tension hadn’t left Nicaise’s shoulders as Damen rose to find the first aid kit in his room. Damen had never had use for it before, and it look longer than he would have liked to find it. Nicaise sat still as he waited, only jolting slightly when Damen settled on the floor beside him.

“Your hands. They’re bleeding,” Nicaise remarks.

“They’ll heal.”

“Let me attend to you first, if only not to get glass into my own wounds.”

Damen wants to protest, but could find no other reason, so he lets Nicaise ease out the glass from his hands with his gentle fingers and lets him wrap his hands in sterile cloths.

“Will you turn?” Damen asks, and Nicaise reluctantly obeys.

Damen pulls the chiton down, runs a finger along his back, trying to find the source of the blood. He is alarmed when he feel sizable welts under his fingers, and dips a cloth into spirits to wipe away the blood.

The blood melts away to reveal stripes of furious red, and Damen finds the one bleeding as Nicaise winces when the cloth reaches his right shoulder blade. Damen cleans his entire back.

“Who did this to you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t change it.”

“They seem recent.”

“Do they?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I still owe you.”

“For what? You saved my life.”

“I still owe you.”

“You don’t have to answer if you wish.”

“I will.”

“What language was that? What did you say?”

“Vaskian. I simply asked him who paid him, then told him to die when he refused to answer.”

“Why… why do you loathe me so?”

Nicaise does not answer immediately.

“Marlas,” he pauses. “You killed my brother.”

“It could have been anyone.”

“No, it was you. I was there.”

Nicaise had been at the battle. Had he been a medic, Damen wonders, or a swordsman? He had surely proven himself capable of wielding a weapon. But what was one so young doing at a battlefield like Marlas? Nicaise couldn’t have been above fifteen.

“He was the most honourable man I knew.”

They lapse into silence.

Damen cleans the wound as best as he can, and stands to grab a tunic from his wardrobe, passing it to Nicaise. It would be a little large on him, but it would serve its purpose well enough, and at least cover more skin than the chiton had. Nicaise gingerly puts it on, wincing again when he had to lift his arm.

“They tried to kill me.”

“No kidding,” Nicaise says dryly.

“Why did they bring you?”

“As a scapegoat? To make you more cooperative? Who knows, I didn’t leave any alive to ask.”

Damen stands, heading for the door. “Stay here, lock the door. You’ll be safe.”

“Where are you going?”

“To inform my brother, he would know what to do.”

“No!”

Damen was shocked at the strength of Nicaise’s protest.

“Whyever not?”

“Because,” Nicaise pauses, “you idiot, he’s the one who arranged this.”

“He’s my brother!” Damen’s volume is raised, just a little.

“So?” Nicaise had gotten up, and moved to block the doorway.

“Kastor is not a traitor. I know him. He has honour.”

“Would an honourable man do this?” Nicaise unclasps the tunic, and it falls away to reveal more blood, this one old and dried. Not from the fight, and in places it shouldn’t have been at. Nicaise won’t meet Damen’s eyes.

“He did this to you?”

“Not eactly.”

“Then you must be mistaken.” Damen tears his gaze away from Nicaise, and makes for the door, but Nicaise moves to block his path.

“He watched,” Nicaise says. “After he ordered two of his men to do this. He laughed as I begged for him to stop.”

“You must have misunderstood, there has to be a reason.”

“I heard him! I heard him order a man killed after he had confirmed that men were being sent tonight. Sent to kill you.”

“How could you have understood, no, this can’t be true.”

“Why won’t you believe me? Are you that naïve?”

Damen pauses. Nicaise had just spoken in fluent Akielon, Veretian accent barely discernible.

“Who are you, really?” Damen questions in Akielon, warily backing away from the door, but not dropping his guard. “You play to be a bedslave, yet your manner matches not. You pretend you speak only Veretian, yet just now you spoke perfect Akielon. You fight expertly. And you expect me to trust you after all this deceit?”

“I had no choice.”

“Of course you did. Who are you?”

“My brother. The one you murdered. I didn’t see you kill him.”

“Then how could you say for certain it was I?”

“Because everyone knew. All in the vicinity saw and remembered, how Prince Damianos of Akielos became a prince-killer that moment.”

“Then you, you-“

“My true name is Laurent, Crown Prince of Vere, and we have our birthrights at stake."

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a funny piece about how Laurent is a slave and just gets super confused because his master treats him too well but nope.  
> It continues with Laurent roping Damen into a deal, and advising him to find those loyal to him to execute Kastor for treason. Damen is too nice and he just imprisons Kastor. Laurent cuts off his hand though. Damen is crowned king and Laurent holds him to his promise to help him reclaim Vere. Kastor escapes at some point of time and reappears with along with Govart at that place where Guion kept Laurent, but Laurent kills them both because Govart is stupid and Kastor was rather HANDicapped HAHA. Otherwise, Laurent and Damen kick ass and fall in love in the process.  
> Basically more or less what happens in canon, but not quite.  
> Then they get married, happily ever after, and my fangirl heart is satisfied.


End file.
